Tell Me Three Things (11 page)

“A wise person in our family used to say what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger,” I say, because that is the best I can do. An empty morsel.

I can’t say
Mom.

I can’t do that either.

“I know it’s not fair that you’re the one having to comfort me,” he says, eyes on the hills, looking out at the other houses, before glancing back at me. “I do realize that you are the kid here.”

“Am I?” I ask. “I hadn’t noticed.”

He makes his hands into fists and taps his eyes, one-two-three, and then drops them, as if he is done with the self-pity.

“You are just like your mom. An old soul. When you were a baby, you used to lie in your crib and look up at me, and I remember thinking,
Man, this kid already sees right through me.
” I look over at him. He is wrong. I don’t see right through him. He is deeper and more complex than he likes to admit.

I’ve seen him order cabernet with steak. Many times. Happily.

“Dad?” The question forms again:
Are we leaving?
But I let it go. “Nothing. Never mind.”

“So forty-four is really old?” His face brightens. He’s now recovered from whatever gripped him.

“Ancient,” I say.

“Better tell Gloria to add Depends to the shopping list, then.” A stupid joke, maybe but I laugh anyway because I can. I can give him that much.

“Hey, Dried Tubers,” Ethan says when I meet him in the library. Same shirt every day, same chair by the Koffee Kart, and now the same table where we met last time. This guy has his routines down.

“Really? That’s how it’s going to be?” I say, though I smile. I like the familiarity. That he would call me a nickname at all. “I thought you said it made a good insult.”

“I decided we should take back the word,” he says, and packs up his books. Apparently, we’ll be walking again. This makes me happy. It’s so much easier to talk when I don’t have to see his eyes. Ethan looks different today, borderline peppy. “How about Tub-ee? Tuberoni? No?”

“Did you get some sleep or something?” I ask.

He looks up at me, startled. “Huh?” He runs his hands through his hair, his fingers raking the pieces into a perfect mess. I want to touch his hair, tousle it like Gem did. The color is so dark, it looks like it bleeds.

“I dunno. It’s just, you usually seem tired. Today you’re more awake.”

“That obvious?” He nudges me with his shoulder.

“Honestly? It’s like Jekyll and Hyde.” I grin at him to show I mean no harm.

“Six hours. In a row.” He says it proudly, like he just won an award. “I’m what you’d call sleep challenged. ‘I read, much of the night, / and go south in the winter.’ ”

“What?”

“Sorry. Quoting ‘The Waste Land.’ I do read much of the night, but I don’t go anywhere come winter, except sometimes Tahoe to snowboard. So, have you read it?”

“ ‘The Waste Land’?” Why can’t I keep up with him? I’m a smart girl. I get at least seven and a half hours a night. And can he touch my shoulder again, please?

“The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde.”

“Nope.”

“You should. It’s pretty interesting. It’s about a guy with a split personality.”

“I’m sure you relate,” I say.

“Ha,” he says.

“So how about Tubilicious?” I ask. This is all easier than it should be.

“Tubilicious it is, Jessie.” He stops, and then I wait for it. “Holmes.”

Later, we find ourselves at a Starbucks, though not the one with the weird barista. Ethan buys me a vanilla latte and waves my hand away when I offer some cash. Does that make this a date? Or does everyone know that I’m economically challenged, at least by Wood Valley standards? Then again, it’s just a latte, and he seems like the chivalrous type. He memorizes poetry and holds the door, and he hasn’t taken his phone out even once to text. Let’s be real here: Ethan probably has a girlfriend—someone who has an entire Parisian-like sexual history, open and comfortable and varied. I should ask Dri, but I’m embarrassed. Liking Ethan feels too cliché.

“I assume you aren’t going to Gem’s party on Saturday night,” he says, and blows on his coffee. I’m not sure if I should be insulted by his assumption that I won’t be anywhere near the most popular kids in the junior and senior classes on a Saturday night. And why does he always have to bring up the wonder twins? It’s embarrassing.

“Actually, I think I am.” I shrug, do my best to project a
screw ’em
vibe. So they don’t like my laptop and my jeans and anything else about me. That won’t keep me home.

“Really?” he asks. “Cool.”

“A friend of mine is playing with his band, so…” It’s reaching to call Liam a friend, but I want Ethan to stop thinking of me as Gem’s victim. As a big fat loser.

“You mean Oville?”

“Yeah.”

“Who do you know?” he asks. His tone is borderline belligerent, like it’s preposterous that someone like me should know someone in the band. What the hell is his problem?

“A guy named Liam. Why?”

“I’m in Oville.” Of course. Of course he is. Crap. He and Liam are probably best friends, and now Liam will hear that I dropped his name, like he’s a celebrity or like we’re besties or something. Thank God I didn’t call it Oville. This is mortifying.

“Seriously? I keep forgetting how small this school is. Everyone knows everyone and everything except me.”

“Knowing everyone here is overrated,” Ethan says.

“What do you play?” I ask.

“Electric guitar, and I sing a little, though Liam really fronts us.”

“He’s good,” I say. “I bet the band is too.”

“You’ve heard him?” That tone again. Is it really that hard to believe that I’m friends with Liam?

“Um, yeah. Just practicing, you know.”

“Liam’s okay,” Ethan says, takes a sip of coffee and then another. Reconsiders. Softens. “No, you’re right. He’s good.”

“And you?” I ask, trying to lighten the mood, which feels heavy. It’s two steps forward, one step back with this guy.

“I’m not too shabby myself,” Ethan says, and there it is again, his sudden goofy smile. So bright and beautiful, it’s like staring straight into the sun.

At home under the food dome: miso cod, a fancy salad with edamame and candied walnuts, sticky coconut rice. Gloria knows how to cook Japanese food? Too bad I’m anti–food porn, because this meal is Instagram-worthy. Again, the house is dark, though Theo sits at the kitchen counter nursing a glass of red wine, like he’s forty and has had a tough day at work. It’s only been three years since he had braces. I’ve seen the pictures.

“Upshot? Not talking. Still married,” Theo says, and pours me my own glass without my asking. I take a sip, breathe through my nose, like Scarlett taught me. It’s not half bad.

“Where are they?” I ask.

“Who knows? Couples therapy? A work dinner? My mom never used to go out this much.”

“My dad either.”

“They’re both idiots.”

“Stop it.”

“They are. They thought they could just
insert replacement here
and forget that someone they loved actually died. Even I’m more emotionally mature than that.”

I drink my wine. Theo’s not wrong.

“Now what happens?” I ask. Two sips and my arms start to tingle, that feeling that tells me the alcohol is winding its way into my system.

“No idea. I just didn’t need all this shit, you know? Like junior year isn’t stressful enough?”

“What are you worried about? You’re acing all of your classes, you have PSAT tutors—did you hear the plural there, ‘tutors’?—and I’m sure your mom has a friend of a friend on every admissions board. Your life is cake.”

“You’re describing pretty much every single kid at school. How many people do you think Harvard accepts from Wood Valley? Five.”

“Harvard? Seriously?”

“What?”

“Nothing. It’s just that I never even considered getting into Harvard. I don’t think anyone from my old school has
ever
gotten in there, even our valedictorians.” I don’t mention that in Chicago I was on track to graduate first or second in my class, and now my rank has dropped just by transferring. Apparently, FDR’s classes aren’t weighted as heavily. One more way I’ve been screwed by this move.

“Well, thank you for that little life lesson,” Theo says, and for a moment he looks angry—like he’s-going-to-have-another-temper-tantrum angry—but then it passes and he just sighs.

“I just mean, Harvard isn’t the be-all and end-all,” I say, as if I know these sorts of things. “You’re going to get into a great school no matter what.”

I like wine, I decide. It makes me feel slippery, soft, allowing words to just leak out. It makes it less hard being me.

“My dad went to Harvard.” He plays the dead dad card, as if that will get any sympathy from over here. Instead, I laugh. I can’t help it. It’s funny.

“What? Why are you laughing?”

“Because your dad went to Harvard,” I say.

“Why is that so funny?”

“You’re a freaking legacy!”

Theo looks at me, starts laughing too. “You’re right. And his dad went to Harvard too. My life is pretty much cake. You know, other than being gay and losing my dad. But the rest, fine. You win.”

“Here’s an idea: You really need to start a YouTube channel where you can whine to the camera.
Boo-hoo, I’m gay. Boo-hoo, my dad died,
” I joke. Theo smiles.

“Already have one. I’ll send you the link.” Theo clinks his glass with mine. “You know, you can sit in on my PSAT tutoring sessions.”

“Really?” I ask.

“Don’t get too excited. Mondays only. Not Thursday. Thursday is when the magic happens.”

Agnes applies my makeup with at least fifteen different brushes. When she’s done, she sweeps my hair behind my shoulders and makes me face the mirror.

“Voilà!” she says, like we’ve just finished a makeover scene on a morning show. I look up and smile at the face blinking back.

“Wow,” Dri says, and claps in excitement. “You look a-maz-ing.”

“Thanks, dah-ling,” I say. We gather for a group selfie, since we are all looking pretty damn good, and once we each approve the picture, after only three tries, Agnes Instagrams it and tags us.

Dri has agreed to be our designated driver, since drinking aggravates her IBS. I’m learning that Dri has a lot of what she calls nerd ailments: IBS, asthma, carpal tunnel syndrome, myopia. We all pile into her mom’s car and turn up the radio. I feel like a normal teenage girl headed to a normal party on a normal Saturday night. I might have, for at least a little while, taken off my top-secret grief backpack and left it behind.

Gem lives in a mansion. On a hill. Behind a gate. Hidden by ten-foot-high hedges. We hike around the house to get to the backyard, where people are lounging on upholstered couches grouped around the infinity pool. An elaborate bar is set up on a built-in barbecue, and there’s an actual stage laid out on the lawn with a professional-grade sound system. I feel relief knowing that Gem and Crystal will likely not even notice that I’m here.

“Drinks?” Agnes asks, and without waiting for my answer grabs my wrist, and I grab Dri’s, and we head to the bar, which is filled with bottles, presumably pilfered from everyone’s parents’ stashes.

“You’ll introduce me, right? To Liam?” Dri asks me.

“Course,” I say. “I mean, I don’t know him that well, but if I see him.”

A few minutes later, holding drinks, which are devised by Agnes and are red and potent, we begin our lap around the party. I’m glad I let my new friends pick out my outfit. I’m wearing my short black dress from last year’s homecoming paired with Dri’s jewelry and strappy sandals.

I feel hands cover my eyes, and I stifle my impulse to scream.

“Guess who?”

“Hey,” I say, and twist out of the hands and turn to face…Liam. Did I hope it would be Ethan? Okay, maybe a little. Liam gives me a peck on the cheek, which is weird, because we don’t kiss hello at the store.

“Hi,” I say, greeting him twice.

Hey-hi. Really, Jessie? Best you can do?

“Hi,” he says, and his voice is thick and loose. He’s drunk, I realize, though I’m not sure how far gone. He’s not stumbling, but he rests his hands on my shoulders. He has what Scarlett and I would call penis fingers. Dri would call them manly. “I’m so glad you came. We’re going on any minute.”

“Cool,” I say, and then I notice Dri standing next to me. “Liam, have you ever met my friend Dri? She’s the best. You guys have, like, literally the same taste in music.”

“Yo,” he says, and tips an imaginary hat at her. Yup, very drunk. Liam is not a hat-tipping kind of guy. Dri freezes, because Liam Sandler is talking to her, and though I’m sure she’s fantasized about this moment many, many times, it’s a very different thing when fantasy meets reality. Agnes elbows her to wake her out of her stupor.

“Hi,” Dri says. “Oville is, um…You, I mean, you guys, are really very, I mean, good.”

“We aim to please,” he says, a little cocky. Maybe he’s not so different from the other senior guys after all. Someone far away whistles. “That’s my cue, ladies. See you later, Jess?”

Liam heads toward the stage, and once he’s out of earshot, Dri grabs my hands.

“Did that just happen? Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god,” she says.

“He’s seriously drunk,” I say.

“No shit, Sherlock,” Agnes says, and gives me a pointed look over Dri’s head, though I’m not sure what she’s trying to say.

“Let’s get closer to the stage.” Dri leads the way, and we all hold hands again and snake through the crowd to get a better view.

“What?” I whisper to Agnes.

“Nothing,” she says, but it’s the kind of nothing that means something.

We make our way to the front, and then I see the whole band, right there onstage, which also means I see Ethan, and my stomach drops. He has a blue electric guitar strapped across his chest, his hair is even messier than usual, and he looks like an actual rock star, despite the Batman logo emblazoned across his chest. Like he was born to be up there, born to hear pathetic girls like me squeal his name. Our eyes catch—a second, then another, one more—but I look away because: Holy crap. I’m no longer cold.

I want to look back. I want nothing more in this life but to look back and have him look at me, but I know he’s now on to more important things, like playing guitar and having eye-sex with other girls, and I just can’t take it.

“Aren’t they amazing?” Dri asks, even though they haven’t started playing yet.

“They look like a real band,” I say, which is the greatest understatement of our time. They don’t look like a real band. They look like rock gods. “I mean, not like high school kids.”

“I know, right? We thought they were going to break up last year after Xander died, but then Liam joined and took his place—” Dri stops talking because the music starts and I don’t get a chance to ask more. Who is Xander? Was he the kid who Theo said overdosed on heroin? Have I completely misunderstood Liam and Ethan? Do they live, like, rock-star lives, with needles in their arms and scantily clad girls giving them blow jobs in their tour van? Is that why Ethan always looks exhausted? Too much partying?

Oville starts with a fast one, and the crowd all knows the words and starts dancing with arms thrown in the air. Liam sweats and belts his heart out:
We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over. Do it all over. We tried, I cried, you hide, and then we do it all over.

Simple lyrics, maybe, but before I know it, I’m dancing too, transfixed. Maybe it’s the alcohol—not maybe, of course it’s the alcohol—but I find myself staring at Ethan. I don’t care if he notices, thinks I’m a cray-cray stalker; he’s onstage asking to be stared at. For a second I feel his eyes on mine—I swear I do, and I shiver—but then he looks back into the crowd and I think I must have imagined it.

“We’re Oville, and we’ll be back,” Liam says, and jumps off the stage to deafening cheers. I turn to Dri, grab her shoulders.

“You were so right about them,” I say. “Oh. My. God.”

“Right? Right?”

“Not you too,” Agnes says, and rolls her eyes, though she was dancing right alongside us.

“Not about Liam,” I say. “But—”

“Not about Liam, what?” Liam says, and there he is again, standing next to me, shiny with sweat and elation. Thank God I didn’t finish my sentence. I don’t need the humiliation of Ethan finding out I have a debilitating crush on him via Liam.

“Nothing. You guys were amazing. Seriously,” I say, and nudge Dri to join in the conversation. Before she can say a word, though, Gem runs up and practically jumps into Liam’s arms, and wraps herself around his torso. She kisses him and we can all see her tongue.

“Whoa, what was that for?” Liam slowly puts her down. He doesn’t sound drunk anymore. Maybe performing burned it all off.

“Baby, you guys, like, totally slayed,” Gem says, and then links her arm with his, as if we need another demonstration that she is his girlfriend.
We get it. He bones you.

“Thanks. Hey, do you know Jessie? Remember I told you about her? She works at Book Out Below!” Liam says.

Gem turns to me and smiles, and it looks so sincere, my first thought, beyond disgust, is that I’m certain that she will one day become famous. This girl can act. Of course Liam likes Gem; he’s never actually met her. I wonder what he’d say if he knew she mocks me daily.

“You’re new, right? Don’t we have English together or something?” she asks. Pure innocence. I shrug, unable to force myself to respond. Agnes thrusts another drink into my hand, and though I don’t really need it, I gulp it down.

“Liam, I like the new riff you added to ‘Before I Go.’ It really works,” Dri says, and I so appreciate her jumping in that I want to cry.

“You think? Ethan thought it was a little flashy,” Liam says.

“Nah, you needed a break right then. Too much tension or something.”

“That’s exactly what I said.”

“Lee-lee, we need to go. Crystal is calling us,” Gem says, and starts to pull Liam away, like he’s a yippy dog sniffing something disgusting.

“I’ll be there in a sec,” Liam says.

“Come on, I want you to make me your special vodka and Red Bull.” Gem says it like an invitation, as if she is asking him to lick her, not to prepare a drink. How does she do that? Talk with innuendo? Is that something I will ever learn how to do, or is it a skill she was born with, just a bonus in her overflowing genetic swag bag?

“I do make kick-ass cocktails. Catch you guys later?” Liam asks, and gives us a wide smile, big enough that Dri can now cross
see Liam Sandler smile at me
off her bucket list.

I don’t acknowledge his compliment because it’s too easy to lie. Maybe Agnes has a point: writing is different from speaking after all. My mom used to tell me I was beautiful, but I always felt like she meant it in a general way, from the perch of someone whose own body had betrayed her, and maybe also as a public service message, a way to build up my flagging self-confidence. Scarlett’s mother, on the other hand, used to say that Scarlett could be gorgeous if she only lost ten pounds, which was cruel, of course, but also specific, as if her mom thought she was worthy of an honest assessment.

I look around. A tall, good-looking guy in the corner wearing glasses and a gray T-shirt is staring at his phone. It takes me a moment to place him. He was the first person I saw at Wood Valley: Kilimanjaro gray T-shirt boy. The one who spent the summer climbing mountains and building schools in Tanzania. I doubt he’s SN—I picture SN as more of a homebody, unlikely to have spent his summer scaling mountains—but it’s worth further investigation.

“Who’s that?” I ask Dri, motioning to the guy in the corner.

“Caleb. Agnes went to junior prom with him last year as friends. He’s cool. Why?”

“Trying to figure out who SN is,” I say. Dri jumps up onto one of the lounge chairs to get a better view of the party. I try to pull her down. I don’t want him, wherever he is, whoever he is, to see her scoping him out. Dri is many wonderful things, but subtle is not one of them.

“I’d say three-quarters of the guys at this party are texting right now,” she reports. “Could be Caleb, though. He’s a little weird like that.”

“SN is not weird,” I say.

“Right,” Dri says. “Because anonymously texting someone all day every day is not weird at all.”